David Suchet makes an inspired Lady Bracknell, but this Wilde revival is
otherwise a dud, says Dominic Cavendish

To make a hash of one revival of The Importance of Being Earnest may be regarded as a misfortune. To botch a second in the space of a year looks like commercial carelessness.

This time last summer the critical knives came out for a stellar production that made the muddle-headed decision to frame Wilde’s ever-bankable 1895 comedy as a show performed by ageing, bumbling amateurs. Now we’ve got David Suchet causing a cross-dressing commotion by donning a corset and braving Lady Bracknell – the first time we’ve had a male Lady B in the West End.

But while Suchet acquits himself entirely admirably in a part habitually played by leading ladies of high renown (Evans, Dench, Smith), the bulk of the evening, directed by former RSC chief Adrian Noble, is as much a trial as poor Oscar’s courtroom ordeals.

Watching Suchet in action, I was put in mind of some magnificent figurehead on an ancient sailing-ship that seems to be strangely listing. The dramatic vessel itself, tightly structured and sealed with aphoristic wit, is pretty much unsinkable.

And yet with many of the crew here resorting to sometimes frantic measures to keep things buoyant, tacking this way and that in terms of tone, chasing laughs as one might elusive gusts of air, the main impression is of something barely sea-worthy.

Whenever Suchet is in sight, you’re less inclined to notice – or care – about this lacklustre state of affairs. The man known to millions as Poirot has shone more brightly elsewhere but, still, I can’t imagine this gift of a gorgon role being better handled by another male actor.

Rather than over-emphasising his feminine side, or stooping to the crasser, panto-dame end of female-impersonation, Suchet locates the mannishness in this haughty, formidable creature. Character and player meet in the middle – you see the join but it barely matters, and it helps cement the work’s delight in inverted norms, assumed identities and double lives.

David Suchet as Lady Bracknell (Photo: Alastair Muir)

Suchet’s Aunt Augusta achieves full-spectrum dominance from the moment she sweeps into view in her nephew Algy’s flat. With a thrusting bosom that could send an aesthete flying, hawk-like eyes that have their glare concentrated by a bushy eye-browed frown and beaky nose, and sour lips so pursed it’s a miracle her rasping pronouncements escape them, she’s snooty imperiousness personified.

There are lots of novel touches – she dismissively scoffs as she utters that notorious line “A handbag?”; almost collapses in an apoplexy on hearing that said article was left in a station cloakroom; and tellingly chokes in involuntary shame later on at her confession of having married without a fortune.

If only the same finesse pertained elsewhere. The big find of the night is Emily Barber as Lady Bracknell’s daughter Gwendolen, not just pretty as a picture but the only member of the cast who seems to have stepped out of a bygone age – accent, attitude, timing and phrasing spot-on. Fresh-faced Michael Benz just about does the business as Jack (“Ernest”) Worthing, but Philip Cumbus lacks the right decadent elan as Algernon: his bon-mots sound second-hand.

I could go on, but I won’t. Perhaps it will all gather confidence as summer turns to autumn. Right now, with the air-conditioning keeping the Vaudeville as cool as a cucumber sandwich, you won’t be left so much hot and bothered as vaguely bewildered that this evergreen masterpiece should land with such a reppy thud.